“We’re here with noted kaiju critic Esther Hayes, and the lines are open!” says the anchor.

“Yeah, what even is your job,” says the line.

“I interpret kaiju rampages through a lens that makes them relatable,” Esther says patiently. “For instance, Vulfhor’s destruction of the Wilbury neighborhood last week was an allegory for the oligarchical–”

“Twelve hundred people lived in that allegory.” The line crackles. “My great-aunt lived in that allegory.”

Tickertape is one of the oldest iron walkers, corroded gearwork limbs bolted to a big head-shaped body. Moya’s crammed a leather armchair into its cockpit top. There are dozens of unlabeled levers, not to mention the toggles, dials and flickering indicators. Just for her, they work like charm.

“Whipoorwill,” she murmurs into a rusted microphone stalk, jerks two stuck controls and jams a footpedal, and with a grinding sound it begins. Smiling, she climbs down to let its ribbon of mechanical poetry spill through her hands. Tickertape doesn’t walk much, and she doesn’t type, but together they make something good.

“Look, I deactivated physical push notifications,” Egbert says. “I mean the technology is amazing, but I had fourteen people today shove me while announcing it was my turn in Word Game, and then some guy told me I was mayor of Coffee House and bumped me into traffic. I don’t want” and then the next straw wrapper thwocks him in the eye.

“That’s not what this is,” she says, reloading.

“Then please,” says Egbert with what he feels is mighty restraint, “tell me what you are.”

The young woman across the train aisle grins and takes aim one more time. “Flirting.”